


Thirteen

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age-Swap AU, M/M, focus is on otayuri, it's one of those fics where everybody sleeps with everybody else, should be safe for anyone who tends to clutch their pearls, underage not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 01:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12830856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: “Look on the bright side,” Yuri overhears Lilia tell Yakov as he’s opening the door to Yakov’s office. “At least he can’t get Vitya pregnant.”





	Thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK LOOK LOOK @shinshingummy drew [an art of purple leggings Vitya](http://shinshingummy.tumblr.com/post/174268917468/thirteen-s%CA%9C%C9%AA%D0%B8-pixiv-for-neuroglams-fanfic)!!

Yuri leans on the boards and watches the stupidest possible junior squirt, with the stupidest possible hairstyle—hair down to your waist, swinging every which way: who does this—do the stupidest possible thing a junior squirt can do: try to land quad when his coach isn’t looking. It even works—well, kind of. It’s wobbly, it’s a sal, but it’s a quad. 

Doesn’t make it any less stupid.

Then he remembers himself at that age, and yeah, OK—he’d been exactly that stupid, too. There used to be these shouting matches with Yakov. Yuri vaguely remembers his younger self scream, “I won’t do it just because you tell me so!” and cringes a little.

For a second, he feels a weird sort of compassion for Yakov.

Then the squirt lands another quad. 

Yuri lets out a deep, exasperated sigh and pushes himself off the boards. “If you ever plan on having a career, leave the quads until you’re sixteen,” he says without pre-amble. There’s no need to introduce himself. Anyone who can land a quad sal at twelve is bound to know who he is. 

The kid’s shoulders drop a little and Yuri realizes the quads have been for show. To impress _him_. “Yuri Plisetsky,” he says, extending his hand, and hopes it counts as a peace offering. “Anyone with enough talent and grit to jump like this has an actual chance at Olympic Gold. Don’t blow it with an injury you can easily avoid. WIn with the smallest margin possible. Don’t go showing off until it really matters.”

Okay, so now he’s turning into Yakov. Great. 

“Viktor Nikiforov,” the kid says quietly, his shoulders drooping. 

Yuri racks his brain for something to say. He’s never been one to give a fuck about people—least of all about juniors—but he finds he doesn’t like it that this one—Victor—looks so miserable. Reminds him of himself, or something. “That was great, though,” he says. “Quite impressive.”

The kid smiles, and  Yuri feels better. 

 

~*~*~

 

The year rolls on, and things are as they’ve always been: Yuri lives in his shabby one bedroom with his cat, runs in the mornings, and goes to the rink. At night, he Skypes Otabek. 

Yuri likes Otabek. Otabek is serious, determined, and no-nonsense—even if he does have this DJ thing going with, of all people, JJ—but then Otabek’s always had shit taste for friends. Yuri is a case in point.

Usually, they talk mostly bullshit. Movies, gossip. Stuff. Well, Yuri talks: complains in-between stretches of silence and Otabek’s quiet humming. At first, it’s about, “-this new junior, I can’t even _look_ at his Bielmann, fucking pretzel-” (this gets him an eye roll—which, fair enough). Then it’s, “He follows me around and smiles and does everything I tell him—he’s even started putting his hair in a bun. It’s fucking weird. And I feel so _watched._ ”

Otabek chuckles. “So you made a friend.”

“Shut up, you asshole.”

“Hey, nothing wrong with it. Even you’re bound to run across someone that likes you, once every ten years.”

“Oh fuck you,” Yuri says. Victor hadn’t simply declared himself and Yuri friends like Otabek had. Creates all sorts of confusion, that. 

_Friend_. 

If Otabek says so.

 

~*~*~

 

While Victor chatters at Yuri about the unfairness of seventh grade math homework, Yuri flips it over in his head; mulls on it this way and that. Maybe it’s taken him a whole year to notice that he’s made a friend because, as a habit, he just can’t be fucked with people. Most people can’t be fucked with him back. It’s only Victor—and Otabek, and Lilia, and Yakov—who refuse to get the message. 

Victor’s onto a classmate of his who got these really cool glittery purple tights, which she apparently wears with black pointed boots and an oversized sweater. 

“Get yourself a pair if you like them.” Yuri shrugs absent-mindedly. Could be worse. As in, spikes, patent leather and tons of tiger print, worse. Whatever outfit Victor comes up with, he’ll have to work hard to outdo fourteen-year-old Yuri. 

“You really think it’ll be okay?” Victor looks up at him hopefully, and Yuri remembers just how much angst goes into things like purple tights at thirteen. 

“Why won’t it be?” If Victor can’t wear tights, who could? Butts hardly get better than a professional skater’s. Or thighs.

“Well."" Victor looks down. "They’re for girls.”

Yuri chuckles— because  _now_ mister long flowing hair is worried over gender conformity. “Did anyone give you shit?” he says. Because it could be that. “‘Cause Mila knows a bunch of guys on the hockey team, you know.”

“No, just…” Victor fiddles with his hair. “I just wondered if you thought it’s ridiculous.”

_Huh? So this was all about getting Yuri’s approval on his outfit?_ Teenagers. “No, I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” Yuri says. “I think you’ll look good in them.” 

Victor looks at him, and beams. 

 

 

Looking back, it was kind of bound to happen. These things do, when you spend all your time with someone: sharing the ice, a ballet teacher, a coach, a physio, a nutritionist. Crabby twenty-six-year-olds with no life like Yuri end up hanging out with slightly spacey thirteen-year-old juniors, and get to hear anything and everything that pops into their heads. 

Including, apparently, this.

“So it is true?” Victor tilts his head and looks up at Yuri with impossibly wide eyes. “Does your, um, physical endurance really improve if you don’t jerk off?” 

_Uh_. Yuri thinks, leaning on the boards. What the fuck does he say? 

Victor takes the pause to mean that he should explain himself better. “Cause I’ve been wanting to.” He keeps looking right into Yuri’s eyes. “Like, really, really.” _Okay…_ “But I know you don’t, much, so. I wondered if there’s a reason.”

Yuri feels strangely put on the spot, as he imagines one does when a thirteen-year-old has noticed your masturbation habits and found them… lacking. He feels like making excuses. _No, it’s not that; I’m just tired. I can’t be bothered with people. Most of them are idiots._

“Georgi says it’s fine and your jumps don’t really improve, and that _that’s_ why you’re such a jerk, but-”

And yeah, okay, Yuri’s killing Georgi. 

On the second thought, Georgi’s a non-issue. He’s never been a serious threat. Who the fuck cares what Georgi thinks.

In the mean time, Victor keeps looking up at him and biting on his lip. “Um, _I_ don’t think you’re a jerk,” he backtracks with the grace of all who’ve ever put their foot in their mouth. “And I’d rather be listening to you anyway, when it comes to that.”

Yuri sighs. OK, he’s not killing anyone. “It’s a balance,” he says and tries to sound like he knows what he’s talking about. “And every person is unique. You should experiment and see what works for you.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Victor nods seriously. “Thank you.”

“No biggie,” Yuri says. “Hey, bring me a bottle of water, will you?”

“Sure.”

Yuri congratulates himself on having dodged a bullet.

 

~*~*~

 

Except, Yuri realizes that night, in-between feeding Potya and collapsing on the couch, he hasn’t dodged shit. Because as soon as he closes his eyes, he sees Victor look up at him. 

_I really really want to._

And the thing is, he thinks as he takes out his dick and listens to the crunchy sounds of Potya chewing from the kitchen—

Yuri might _really really want to_ , too. 

 

~*~*~

 

“Who died?” Otabek says when he sees Yuri on Skype.

“Nobody,” Yuri says. “Just, I think I want to fuck someone.”

Otabek laughs—because _of course_ Otabek laughs. “I’m sorry,” he tells Yuri finally. “That must be really bothersome.”

“Aa.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Yuri thinks. Making Otabek fly to St. Petersburg all the way from Toronto is not what he’d been angling for, but. 

“Yeah,” Yuri says. “Yeah, I think I want you to.”

Otabek grins. “Sweet. Looking forward.” 

Yuri pouts. Otabek didn’t use to say, “sweet.” It’s a stupid thing he’s picked up from stupid JJ. “I missed you,” Yuri says quietly, in the kind of small voice he only really uses around Otabek. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Me, too.” Otabek’s eyes are soft in the corners, and fond. “You know I always do.”

“Quit it, you sap.” Yuri looks away. “Go look for tickets.”

“Aa.” 

It feels good that Otabek says things like Yuri, too.

 

~*~*~

 

It takes about a month to coordinate their schedules and make arrangements. Yuri used to dislike it, being responsible for Otabek dropping everything on an international booty call. But they’ve since had this discussion and Otabek said roughtly this: one, Otabek is a professional athlete who can make considered decisions about his training. So, two, if Otabek offers, Yuri has to trust that Otabek’s thought through his own schedule and obligations, and not worry or make it an issue.

Yuri’s trying to keep telling himself that.

What makes it a little better is that Otabek’s always welcome at Yubileiny. Whenever he visits, he tags along and gets unofficial coaching from Yakov and Lilia—has done ever since he and Yuri first met at one of Yakov’s junior training camps. At the time, Yuri didn’t question it. That’s what coaches do: they watch you skate and they tell you how to fix your mistakes. Kind of like how when you visit a classmate, you never question that his mom would feed you, too? 

But then Yuri hit seniors and met people. And found out that things don’t usually work like this. Other athletes didn’t just visit each other’s rinks to get an impromptu coaching consult. If they wanted one, they paid fees—yes, even if it was just for a week. 

Curious, Yuri asked around for what Yakov would for private coaching—if he even agreed to it in the first place.

It’s how Yakov and Yuri ended up having their absolute most stilted exchange: Yuri haltingly thanking Yakov for what he’s done for Otabek, Yakov awkwardly nodding back. It was at the airport, while waiting in front of their gate—the kind of time when you have nothing to do but have weird discussions. “I don’t just do it for Otabek,” Yakov had said at the end of a ten-minute lecture on how “we’re not like the Westerners. The USSR helped me, Russia helped you. So, I’ll help Otabek if I can. I do it to pay back my debt to Russia. But mostly, I do it for you.” 

This last bit—I help Otabek for you—was not a good thing to tell Yuri before a ten-hour flight. He spent half of it thinking about how even Yakov saw how damned _important_ Otabek was.

Yuri’d started to be nicer to Otabek after that. It only took three Skype conversations for Otabek to go, “Look, you’ve been acting strange and it’s weirding me out, is anything wrong?”

Which started Stilted Exchange number two, in which Yuri told Otabek that Otabek is _important_ , and Otabek called Yuri an idiot, because Otabek _knows_. 

And besides, Yuri is important, too. 

They don’t have a name for what they are. It’s just that Otabek always knows the right time to offer to fly over and dig his fingers into Yuri’s back as Yuri’s parched body sinks tiredly into his. 

The difference this time is, Yuri’s got a thirteen-year-old’s eyes boring into his back, and now that Yuri’s looking at things _that_ way, he can’t seem to unsee it—all the little ways in which Victor strives. To be graceful. To perform for Yuri. To impress him. 

To attract his attention and esteem. 

So Yuri would watch Victor in ballet, and Victor would catch him at it—and Victor’s wrist would articulate that tiny bit more, and Yuri would think— _I want to. Like, really, really._

 

~*~*~

 

Having Otabek at Yubileiny turns out to be a disaster, and Yuri doesn’t know how to even _start_ dealing with it. They arrive at the rink on Monday morning, Yuri calm and pliant, with hickeys on his neck. Yuri’s hand just seeks out Otabek’s when they’re near; Otabek’s somehow always finds its way around Yuri’s shoulders. And none of this is any different than it’s ever been—it’s just that now there’s a teenager with his shoulders sinking, his huge eyes trained on Yuri with such sincere _hurt_ that Yuri just _can’t_.

Victor can’t either—it takes him about two hours to skate off and make a hurried apology to Yakov on his way out. 

“Shit,” Yuri says as he buries his face in his hands. This kind of thing—it’s never happened before. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s looking at Yakov like little kids do when they hurt their knee and they somehow hope mommy will fix it. 

Yakov, bless him, heaves out a deep sigh and turns to go after Victor. 

Yuri, though, is twenty-six: way past the age when mommy should be fixing his knees. So he gets up, puts a hand on Yakov’s shoulder to hold him back, and goes after Victor himself. 

 

~*~*~

 

Victor is in the locker room crying, wiping angrily at his face as he changes out of his clothes. 

Yuri doesn’t know what to say. He’s never known what to say, especially to someone with actual feelings that need taken care of—someone who won’t magically know what’s on Yuri’s mind the way Otabek, Yakov, and Lilia seem to. So he does the simplest thing: walks over and holds Victor to his chest. 

Victor grips onto him and cries harder. 

“Shhh,” Yuri says as he pats his hair awkwardly. “I like you, too. No need to cry. I like you, too.”

“But you-” Victor sniffles into Yuri’s chest. “You like _him,_ ” Victor accuses.

“I do like him,” Yuri says calmly. “And I like you, too. And he likes me and JJ.”

Victor sniffles one last time and quiets down: what Yuri said seems to have short-circuited his brain. Which is fair: on most days, Yuri’s brain can’t quite square it either. Mostly, he deals with the JJ thing by ignoring it.

“Otabek visits only occasionally,” Yuri says and hopes it makes it better.

Victor looks up. His eyes are still impossibly large, but now they’re red from crying. “Why didn’t you say,” he says accusingly.

For the same reason no one ever says, Yuri thinks. Because I didn’t want to deal with it. “Because you’re thirteen.”Thirteen, at least, is an actual fact. You can’t argue with thirteen.

“Too young.”

“I’m not!” Victor says and honest-to-god stomps his foot. 

Yuri almost rolls his eyes. “You’re thirteen,” he repeats. He doesn’t tell Victor that he hooked up with Otabek at thirteen. Hopefully, Yakov won’t snitch either. Victor _is_ too young, regardless of how attached to each other they’ve gotten in the weird crucible of Yubileiny.

Regardless of how Yuri jerks off over him. 

“Will you come back to the ice now?” Yuri says when Victor’s stopped crying. 

Victor doesn’t let go of his shirt. 

“No. Maybe tomorrow.”

“It’s only until next Monday,” Yuri says as he untangles himself. He puts his hands on Victor’s shoulders and looks straight at him, so Victor knows he means it. “When he goes back to Canada, we’ll talk again.”

“Kiss me,” Victor says, spine straight, chin stubborn, and Yuri can see how he ended up Russia’s best junior skater. Kid’s the type that goes after what he wants. As long as Victor is determined, Yuri won’t have much say in whether—only when. 

So he bends down, looks at Victor’s eyes widen even further, and touches their lips. “There,” he says. “It’s a promise.”

Next, he touches his lips to Victor’s forehead. 

Then he turns and walks out.

 

_~*~*~_

 

“Well, then,” Otabek says when Yuri returns, his shirt covered in snot. 

“Um.” Yurilooks at the tips of Otabek’s skates. “I’m sorry?” 

Otabek wraps one hand around his shoulders and pulls him in. “Was fucking bound to happen, you falling for someone else. What with how we actually see each other twice a year.” 

Yuri leans into Otabek. He feels reassured. Comforted. Mostly, grateful. Victor is not just someone else. Victor is his rinkmate, and twelve years his junior. Otabek could have said much more about this. 

Otabek keeps his hand on Yuri’s shoulder and stares in the distance. “Won’t make it any easier to give you up.”

“You’re not giving me up.” Yuri cuts this crap before it has the chance to start. “You didn’t stop being important just ‘cause I also like him.”

“Yeah, okay, fine, I deserve this. ” Otabek sighs. 

He does deserve it. It’s the exact same line he’d on Yuri when he and JJ had first hooked up. “Promise it’s not going to cut into our time?” And that’s exactly what Yuri had said back. 

“Promise.” Yuri says. 

Then it starts dawning on him exactly how hard it will be to pull it off. 

Yuri will do it, though. Otabek’s been doing it with no complaints, balancing the demands of both Yuri and JJ, and he’s never once complained. Yuri owes him for yet another thing he’s done for the two of them with Yuri being none the wiser. 

“Fuck,” he says empathically.

“I feel you,” Otabek says. “Yours is younger, too.” 

“Well, one of yours is _me_. And the other is JJ. If you can manage the two of us drama queens, I can manage a thirteen-year-old.” Yuri says it—actually names the number. Someone should.

“You’re not so bad,” Otabek says. “And neither is JJ. Also, _you_ were thirteen.”

“And you were fourteen. Not the same thing.”

“…No.” Otabek sounds thoughtful. “You’ve got a responsibility here,” he says.

No shit, Yuri thinks.

They stay like that. Mostly, Yuri is relieved that Otabek is not pissed at him. But also, they see each other rarely enough. Yuri is not letting go a damn second earlier than he has to. 

Looks like neither is Otabek.

It’s Yakov’s booming voice that takes them out of it, floating over from somewhere in the corridor, lecturing Victor. 

“You can’t tell me what to do! He promised!” Victor shouts back. 

Then there’s the sound of a slammed door—likely Victor, on his way out. 

Otabek raises an eyebrow at Yuri. 

Yakov enters the rink, red and puffing. “You-” 

“Don’t,” Yuri says, raising a palm at him. “I know.” 

“Fuck,” he adds for emphasis and rubs at his face. 

“It’s illegal, Yura.” Yakov says.

“Seriously, Yakov. I know. I’m… we’re just going to cuddle. Or something.” L _ike watching Victor jerk off in your bed_ , Yuri’s subconscious supplies helpfully. 

Fuck.

“I’ll talk to you about it,” Yuri says. “You’re our coach and it’s your business, too. Just, now now.”

Yakov huffs. “Otabek,” he says with his lips still pursed. “On the ice. From the top.” Yuri is left on the bench to contemplate his many failings. 

Which is fine. 

Otabek _should_ have more solo ice time. 

He’s only ever here for so short. 

 

~*~*~

 

The next day, Victor shows up with his shoulders squared and his chin held high, and executes everything perfectly: at Yuri, at Otabek, at Yakov. At all three. Yuri gets him: in his shoes, he’d have wanted to show everyone what he’s made of, too. If anyone had gone for Yuri’s man at that age, there would have been violence. And at least one shattered phone screen. Victor’s already dealing so much better, channeling it all productively. It makes Yuri feel better, but only just.

Otabek is quiet as usual. Yakov huffs and puffs. Lilia, on the other hand, is ecstatic, clapping her hands under her chin and gushing about making Victor her prima. Victor preens—this time definitely at Otabek, whose flexibility still sucks. “Didn’t get to me the first time around, won’t get to me now,” Otabek tells Yuri, amused, and Yuri’s thankful that at least somebody seems to have their wits about them. 

Because Yuri, in all honesty, doesn’t. 

Because one, Otabek’s being a perfect gentlemen, with the sort of steady, relentless determination he usually reserves for sport. Yuri hasn’t had this many fluttery kisses—or his ass eaten out this hard—in his life. The entire thing feels, mildly put, weird.Two, Yakov’s frowning like he’s doing it for Mother Russia, and following Yuri around so they can Talk. Three, Victor’s being Victor, just more, and it’s making Yuri dread next Monday. Because what do you do with someone who’s this vulnerable, this determined, and this thirteen—all at the same time? How could it possibly turn out okay?

Then there’s the part of Yuri which knows _exactly_ what to do. In graphic, 3D detail—and it isn’t helping.

Yuri hasn’t dealt with this many _feelings_ since—ever. 

“Do you need to talk to me about him?” Otabek asks that night in bed, when they’re both fucked out but Yuri’s mind just will not _stop_. 

“Yeah,” Yuri says. He’ll owe Otabek for this one, too. Because there’s a “no JJ talk” rule for their Skype sessions, and yet again, Yuri gets to see how many times Otabek probably needed someone to talk to and that someone wasn’t Yuri. “Thank you.” Even though he feels like an asshole, he can’t quite make himself say, “And you can talk to me about JJ, too, if you need to.”

Otabek just holds him near and kisses the crown of his head.

Yuri would have to do something really nice for him back. Maybe even eat ass.

“Well, talk, then,” Otabek says.

“Beks, what the fuck do I do.”

“You don’t lie to him or string him along. You tell him the truth. All of it. How you feel, what you need. Ask him how he feels and what he needs.” 

Just the thought of it makes Yuri want to bury his nose somewhere between the sheets and Otabek’s soulder. “Easy for you to say.”

Otabek just lifts an eyebrow at him.

“Yes, fine, fair point. Fuck.” Because of course Otabek has had to go through this before. “How did you tell JJ?”

“Hnn,” Otabek says. “I told him that I’ve seen him look and that I like him back, but that you aren’t going anywhere.”

Of course Otabek would. Short, straight-forward, to the point. Brave. Yuri cuddles up closer and thinks. “How did you know what to say?” he asks.

“I asked myself questions.” 

And then there’s too short and to the point. “Questions like?”

“Like, if I could have everything I wanted, and have it turn out perfectly, what would that look like?” 

Good question, that.

“Also, what exactly did I feel for JJ, and for you.” 

Fucking Otabek. Yuri still doesn’t know what he feels for him, and bastard has known his own mind for eight years already. 

And then there’s sorting out what he feels about Victor.

Why can’t they just ask him to land a 4A and be done with it?

“…asked myself what my priorities were,” Otabek continues. “What I wasn’t willing to give up. What I was willing to sacrifice.”

“I’ve got no fucking clue what I feel for you,” Yuri says. “Or for him.”

“Really?” Otabek looks at him. “I think you do. You just suck at admitting that you’re full of mushy feelings.” 

Yuri looks back—at his slanted eyes, his eyelashes. _I love you, Beks_ , he tries inside his own head, and it doesn’t feel off at all—only like if he were to admit it, the entire long distance thing would get harder. Yuri doesn’t want to miss Otabek. He doesn’t want to think about how while he misses him, Otabek’s with JJ.

He doesn’t want to think that for all three of them, retirement is drawing near. Otabek will find something else to do, now that he won’t be in Toronto training, and what would that thing be? And will it be where Yuri is?

“What?” Otabek asks, because he can always tell when Yuri’s stuck running circles in his head. 

Yuri can’t find a good way to say, If I keep not thinking about this, I won’t have to be afraid that you’ll decide to be with JJ even if you don’t have to. “What do you want to do when you retire?” he asks instead. 

“Depends on what you and JJ are doing.”

…which does exactly nothing to answer Yuri’s question.

Because here’s the thing: Yuri knows that Victor loves him. They’re together all the time, at the rink and off, by necessity and circumstance. Neither of them has a life. Yuri is Victor’s only everything: friend, companion, mentor. Crush. Victor would _hold onto_ Yuri. Victor would _cling_. He will be with Yuri, as much as he possibly can _._ And if Otabek’s not, then… then Yuri might cling to Victor, too, instead of dealing with the distance and the fear of being passed over for JJ.

“I need you to tell me you’ll be with me,” Yuri says, a little shaky. “I need… promise me, Beka. I can’t-“ he half-chokes on his own words; there’s so much _stuff_ in his chest, and it hurts. “-I miss you too much.” 

Otabek hears it and turns around to face him, eyes peering at Yuri’s face in the dark, hands pulling him closer. 

“I just… you being away. Me missing you. I need to know it will end,” Yuri whispers. 

Someone might be crying. 

It might be him.

“I’m sorry.” Otabek says, and sounds like he means it. “I knew it was hard, but… I didn’t know it was this hard.” 

Me neither, Yuri wants to say, but only manages to sniffle.

“If I haven’t thought about it, it’s only because— fucking retirement, everything will change.” He sighs.“But we’ll make plans. I promise. Okay?” 

Yuri nods into Otabek’s chest. It’s better. Otabek’s rumbly voice, his kisses, his hugs—always make it so. Otabek always makes it so.

“Just, don’t leave me for some squirt who’s still got his splits and still do pointe. Cause I can’t look at his Bielmann either. Fucking pretzel,” Otabek jokes, and Yuri smiles. 

It strikes Yuri, then—the distance and the fear. They go both ways. 

“I love you, Beks,” he says, this time aloud. 

 

~*~*~

 

The next morning, Yuri wakes up to the sound of Otabek typing fiercely on his MacBook. “What’chu doing,” he mumbles as he curls into him.

“Talking to JJ,” Otabek says, still typing. “Told him to think about what he wants out of retirement; that we need to talk about it.” 

There’s another short burst of keys clacking and Otabek puts his laptop away. His hand buries itself in Yuri’s messy hair. “We’ll sort something out,” he continues. “I can’t give you plans yet, but I do know I want you around. Whichever way you’ll have me.”

Yuri climbs up over him, then—because he’d quite like to have him. This way, and right now.

 

~*~*~

 

“Look on the bright side,” Yuri overhears Lilia tell Yakov as he’s opening the door to Yakov’s office. “At least he can’t get Vitya pregnant.”

The conversation goes about as well as expected. Which is to say, it’s awkward, it’s horrible, and Yakov turns purple. 

Any other topic, and Yuri’d have talked back—but not this. He sits and listens to Yakov lecture him—threaten to send him away if he’d even think of doing something inappropriate, his medals be damned. It makes sense: Victor’s the one with a future, the one with more at stake. 

“You’ve got things at stake, too, you idiot!” Yakov shouts and bangs the table. “Your life doesn’t end next year! Who will hire you to coach, to choreograph, to _anything_ if you retire on an underage sex scandal!”

Lilia watches with her hands crossed over her chest. “Maybe it would be if you were to join your friends at the rink in Toronto,” she says quietly, making it sound like it’s really not a suggestion.

“No!” Victor bursts into the office with his fists balled—because of course he was eavesdropping. “If you send him away, I won’t skate either! I won’t!”

Yakov grows more purple still. 

“Vitya,” Lilia says before Yakov can start speaking. “I know that you and Yuri like each other very much. But anything between you before you turn sixteen can hurt him very seriously. Someone could see. Someone could overhear.” It’s her _I mean business and there will be no objections_ voice, the one Yuri’s still in fear of, even though he’s in his twenties. 

“They could sell the story to the tabloids,” she continues. “Yuri could go to _jail_. And even if he doesn’t, his reputation will be ruined. He won’t be able to find a job. He has so much talent, and it would go to waste. Is this what you want for him?”

Victor looks down at the points of his shoes. It’s a cruel guilt trip, but on balance, it might be better.Or maybe not—Yuri thinks when he sees what Victor’s face looks like. Yuri is not OK with this face on Victor. Victor’s done nothing wrong. He’s only fallen in love for an emotionally stunted asshole who just might love him back. 

Yuri opens his arms and Victor flies into them almost immediately. 

“Shh, you know I like you,” he says and does the hair-petting thing that seemed to work last time. It doesn’t come out any less awkward. “I’ll talk to you on Skype, like Otabek talks to me when he’s in Canada-” 

Yuri makes the mistake of looking at Lilia. She’s murderous, probably thinks that Yuri’s only making it worse with these promises but— she doesn’t know. She doesn’t get it, what difference it made to thirteen-year-old Yuri to be sure that that no matter what happened or how hard it got, Otabek would talk to him that night and things would be a little better.

She doesn’t know how many times it gave him the strength to go on. 

How much it had meant to be able to someone, “It’s hard,” and have that person say, “I know.” Otabek did know, because it was just as hard for him in Canada. 

Even harder, maybe, sometimes. 

So he tells Victor, “I’ll come to visit, too. Whenever my schedule lets me.”

Victor clings onto him. 

Lilia keeps glaring. 

 

~*~*~

 

In the end, Yuri doesn’t tell to anyone. He’s had enough confrontations, and enough roller-coasters—enough of people disapproving and being disappointed—to last him a life time. He just calls the movers, fits his life into fifteen carboars boxes and a suitcase, and ships the entire thing to Otabek’s address in Toronto. It seems easier to put Otabek’s address tin his Uber when he lands and hope for the best. 

It’s fucking JJ who opens the door. 

They spend a couple of beats just staring at each other, until finally JJ’s eyes roam up and down Yuri. “You look like shit,” JJ says as he opens the door wider and lets Yuri in.

“At least I only look like shit sometimes,” Yuri mutters as he drags in his suitcase. 

Then Otabek shows up, in a stained pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt—and a pair of fucking _slippers—_ looking so comfortable and domestic that something in Yuri’s just chokes—

—and then he’s bundled in Otabek’s arms, coat and all, breathing in Otabek’s smell. He can fucking _feel_ the look JJ and Otabek exchange over his head; he just can’t bring himself to care. He’s fucking exhausted, but he’s made it. He’s here. He’s home.

Otabek drags him, shoes still on, to what must be his and JJ’s bed— _of course it’s his and JJ’s bed, it’s a one-bedroom apartment, idiot Yuri, what did you expect_ —and spoons him, lying down. Two mugs of camomile tea appear a little later. Another look is exchanged, and JJ turns around and goes, closing the door quietly. 

Yuri sips his tea and looks around. The walls are white, there’s a huge Ikea bed, a dresser, and that’s that. All else is in piles on the floor. It’s a tiny room, but it’s Toronto. One month’s rent here could probably buy Yuri a village house somewhere in Russia. “Where’s your music shit?” Yuri says and sits, leaning on the headboard. 

“In the other room.”

Otabek’s phone starts blowing up at that point, because St. Petersburg is eight hours ahead and Yuri was expected at practice and he isn’t at his place either, which is the first thing Yakov would have checked.

Otabek picks up—he can get exactly two sentences in, namely, “Yes, he’s here,” and “He needs a shower and a good night’s sleep, but other than that, he’s fine”—before Yakov starts with the lecture again. 

Yuri can’t focus on what he says, even though it’s loud enough to hear. After all the shouting, at least Yuri wouldn’t have to explain.

“So,” Otabek says, finally disconnecting the call and tossing his phone aside. 

“I can’t, Beks,” Yuri says. “He’s in love, he’s thirteen, and I can’t.”

“Looks like he’s not the only one.”

“The only one what.” He sips and stares straight ahead.

“In love.” Otabek sips on his tea, too. 

Maybe that’s what this is, then, Yuri thinks. 

Love. 

Must be, if Otabek says so. 

“I’ll call him on Skype. And I’ll go visit,” Yuri says. 

“Four AM in Toronto is eight in the evening in Piter,” Otabek says back, and suddenly Yuri is full of so much _feeling_ for this boy—now man—who’s gotten up for him at four in the morning, day in and day out, for almost ten years. 

Otabek must see it on his face, because he takes Yuri’s free hand and squeezes. “Shower and bed, now. We’re at the rink early tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.” Yuri says. “Thank you, Beks.” 

Otabek gets up and starts rummaging through one of the floor piles. “Here’s a towel.”

“Thanks.”

“And Yura…”

“Hn?”

Otabek takes a moment to just look. Yuri sips. 

“If you’re staying here, your JJ thing needs to go,” Otabek tells him firmly.

Yuri nods. At least he knows that JJ’s Yuri thing, if JJ’s ever had one, would need to go, too. It’s only fair. 

“You are, both of you, adults. I will negotiate anything you bring up about the relationship, but I won’t manage your feelings towards him. That’s on you.”

“Right,” Yuri says before he escapes to the shower. 

 

~*~*~

 

When he comes out wrapped up in the towel, the lights in the living room have been switched off. The bedroom door’s open a crack, JJ and Otabek’s low voices rumble quietly. The low light from the bedside lamp spills out to the hallway. 

Yuri steels himself and goes in. JJ’s already in bed, on the side closest to the window. Otabek is in the middle, and there’s a strip if free space on the side closest to the door. A pair of sweats and a t-shirt have been set out for Yuri. 

Yuri dries himself off and dresses—nothing earth-shattering here; they’ve done this enough times, in enough locker rooms for anyone to be impressed. When the t-shirt and sweats are on, he uses the towel to pat down his hair. 

“Sorry. I’ll make your pillow wet,” he tells Otabek as he slips under the duvet.

“Come closer,” Otabek tells him. “It’s big enough for two, but not for three. So be a good little spoon and don’t hog the blanket.”

“Okay,” Yuri says, settling himself in. “And JJ… thank you.”

“Welcome,” JJ says and switches off the night light. “Let’s sleep now. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.”

 

~*~*~

 

The next morning, Otabek’s alarm goes off at four. Half-asleep, Otabek stirs. “Shh, Beks, I’m here,” Yuri says as he slips out of the bed. “Go back to sleep.”

“Hnn,” Otabek says and rolls into JJ.

Yuri watches them for the briefest time, then finds Otabek’s slippers and puts them on. The living room is cold and quiet; Yuri turns on the small space heater next to the couch and sits on the floor, right in front of it. He takes his phone out and gets on Skype. Presses “Dial.”

The call connects almost immediately, Victor’s red eyes coming into focus.

“Hey,” Yuri says and smiles. “How have you been?”

“You called,” Victor says and sniffles. 

“Of course I called. I said I would!” Yuri settles into as much of a split as he can manage these days. No reason not to work on his flexibility while they talk. “Now tell me all about your day,” he says and yawns. 


End file.
